“Ah,” said she, “did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that come to my father’s door have food given them. But I, who never knew what it was to entreat for any thing, am starved for want of food, giddy for want of sleep, with oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed; and that which vexes me more than all, he does it under the name of perfect love, pretending that if I sleep or eat, it were present death to me.” Here the soliloquy was interrupted by the entrance of Petruchio: he not meaning she should be quite starved, had brought her a small portion of meat, and he said to her, “How fares my sweet Kate? Here, love, you see how diligent I am, I have dressed your meat myself. I am sure this kindness merits thanks. What, not a word? Nay, then you love not the meat, and all the pains I have taken is to no purpose.” He then ordered the servant to take the dish away. Extreme hunger, which had abated the pride of Katharine, made her say, though angered to the heart, “I pray you let it stand.” But this was not all Petruchio intended to bring her to, and he replied, “The poorest service is repaid with thanks, and so shall mine before you touch the meat.”

On this Katharine brought out a reluctant “I thank you, sir.” And now he suffered her to make a slender meal, saying, “Much good may it do your gentle heart, Kate; eat apace! And now, my honey love, we will return to your father’s house and revel it as bravely as the best, with silken coats and caps and golden rings, with ruffs and scarfs and fans and a double change of finery”; and to make her believe he really intended to give her these gay things, he called in a tailor and a haberdasher, who brought some new clothes he had ordered for her, and then giving her plate to the servant to take away, before she had half satisfied her hunger, he said, “What, have you dined?” The haberdasher presented a cap, saying, “Here is the cap your worship bespoke”; on which Petruchio began to storm afresh, saying the cap was moulded in a porringer, and that it was no bigger than a cockle or walnut shell, desiring the haberdasher to take it away and make a bigger. Katharine said, “I will have this; all gentle-women wear such caps as these.”

“When you are gentle,” replied Petruchio, “you shall have one too, and not till then.” The meat Katharine had eaten had a little revived her fallen spirits, and she said, “Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak, and speak I will: I am no child, no babe; your betters have endured to hear me say my mind; and if you cannot, you had better stop your ears.” Petruchio would not hear these angry words, for he had happily discovered a better way of managing his wife than keeping up a jangling argument with her; therefore his answer was, “Why, you say true; it is a paltry cap, and I love you for not liking it.”

“Love me, or love me not,” said Katharine, “I like the cap, and I will have this cap or none.”

“You say you wish to see the gown,” said Petruchio, still affecting to misunderstand her. The tailor then came forward and showed her a fine gown he had made for her. Petruchio, whose intent was that she should have neither cap nor gown, found as much fault with that. “O mercy, Heaven!” said he, “what stuff is here! What, do you call this a sleeve? it is like a demi-cannon, carved up and down like an apple tart.” The tailor said, “You bid me make it according to the fashion of the times”; and Katharine said, she never saw a better fashioned gown. This was enough for Petruchio, and privately desiring these people might be paid for their goods, and excuses made to them for the seemingly strange treatment he bestowed upon them, he with fierce words and furious gestures drove the tailor and the haberdasher out of the room; and then, turning to Katharine, he said, “Well, come, my Kate, we will go to your father’s even in these mean garments we now wear.” And then he ordered his horses, affirming they should reach Baptista’s house by dinner-time, for that it was but seven o’clock. Now it was not early morning, but the very middle of the day, when he spoke this; therefore Katharine ventured to say, though modestly, being almost overcome by the vehemence of his manner, “I dare assure you, sir, it is two o’clock, and will be supper-time before we get there.”

But Petruchio meant that she should be so completely subdued, that she should assent to every thing he said, before he carried her to her father; and therefore, as if he were lord even of the sun, and could command the hours, he said it should be what time he pleased to have it, before he set forward; “For,” said he, “whatever I say or do, you still are crossing it. I will not go to-day, and when I go, it shall be what o’clock I say it is.” Another day Katharine was forced to practise her newly-found obedience, and